


Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

by starhawk2005



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam are on a hunt, and Dean starts to have some dreams about his girlfriend Allison. Dreams of a decidedly sexual variety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: One could consider this fic as occurring somehow, somewhere, in the timeline of ‘A Welcome Distraction’, but it works fine as a stand-alone, too.   
> Written for the first challenge on the we_take_five comm. back in March 2007. My prompt was ‘aesthetic’.

Dean Winchester has always appreciated women’s bodies. All that softness and curvaceous-ness. Sleek hair, creamy skin, sweet perfumes. What’s not to love?

It’s late and he and Sam have been on a hunt, poking around and following leads, and Dean’s tired. But for some reason he can’t seem to fall asleep. So here he is, lying on his lumpy motel room bed, listening to Sam snoring softly from across the room, and thinking about women. 

Or rather, one particular woman. Allison Cameron.

He conjures her in his mind. Her green eyes, and that silky fall of hair. Delicate bones, and skin like satin, but _warm_. Her muscles playing and shifting under his hands as he caresses her. 

He can close his eyes and picture her so clearly that it makes him _ache_. It’s as if she’s on top of him right now, naked, her hair hanging tangled over her shoulders. Lips parted, she’s riding him, thrusting up and down, and Dean can somehow _feel_ every clench and clutch of muscle, can _feel_ the slide of her sweat-slicked skin on his.

Even though it’s physically impossible in this position, he imagines the taste of her in his mouth.

Not the faint strawberry-lip-balm taste of the curve of her lips, nor the slightly salty tang of those perky nipples. No, it’s the buttery flavour from right between her thighs that he imagines tasting as he licks his lips. Yeah, _that_ ’s a thing of beauty to him, along with everything else about her.

In his mind’s eye, she smirks down at him and picks up the pace. She’s so gorgeous, taking her pleasure from him, giving him a show as a rosy pink flush spreads across her chest. As she gasps and pants and whispers his name, urging him.

Her hips almost feel _solid_ under his hands as he reaches out in his fantasy, to drive her even faster, to slam her down harder onto him.

Dean comes, and it feels so _real,_ he’s sure that despite the fact this act of passion is all in his head, he’ll wake up sticky tomorrow. Sam’ll have a field day ribbing him about that, about any stains on his boxers, but Dean can’t bring himself to care. He feels good, mellow and sated.

*~*~*

 

The next morning, however, Dean doesn’t feel so hot. He’s exhausted, drained, as if all the hot monkey sex with Allison that he dreamed about last night came true in reality. As if he didn’t get a wink of sleep. He groans inwardly and glares at the mirror, rubbing at the bags under his eyes.

He doesn’t think about it again, though. He and Sam are too busy following up a few more leads, all of which turn out to be dead ends. No pun intended.

Another day ends, and they’re back in their motel room. Dean cleans their weapons while Sam does some Internet research, trying to dig up something, anything, that might be useful.

Under the sheets, though, it’s the same deal as last night. Dean closes his eyes, and Allison is right there waiting for him, naked and scented like musk and honey. Those delicate pink lips wrap around him, her tongue caressing him as she slowly sucks his length into her mouth. He moans and reaches out to tangle his fingers in thick strands of her hair, fighting not to give in too soon.

 

*~*~*

 

The next morning, it’s worse. Dean feels even more exhausted, like death warmed over. And not warmed over very much, either.

Sam finally notices around noon that Dean’s off his game, although it’s pretty hard to miss - Dean nearly falls dead asleep while behind the wheel of the Impala, almost driving them right off the road.

“Dude! Pay attention, would you?” Sam says sharply, jolting Dean awake again. But then he takes a close look at him, and Dean somewhat resentfully sees Sam’s annoyance change to his patented Worried Look Number Twelve.

“It’s nothing,” Dean growls, giving himself a mental and physical shake. He’s got to pull it together. They’ve got a baddie to hunt down and kill. “Maybe I need a little vacation. Shall we hit some bars later?” Of course, all he’ll do is have a beer (or two) and maybe hustle some pool. Picking up girls like he used to do? Not gonna happen. He only cruises when he’s single. Besides, it’s almost as much fun to try to play matchmaker, under the guise of getting Sam a ‘distraction’ for the night.

Especially when Dean makes a point of trying to link Sammy up with the trashiest girl in the whole dive.

He smirks to himself and drives them – more carefully – to their next meeting, with a friend of a friend of the latest victim.

 

*~*~*

 

The next few days pass in exactly the same way. When Dean settles himself into bed, rumpled t-shirt and boxers and a day’s stubble on his cheeks, and shuts his eyes, she’s there waiting for him.

Dean supposes he’d rest better if he wasn’t spending all night dreaming about making love to Allison, but he can’t seem to stop. He misses her, and it’s too delicious having her like this, even if it’s only a fantasy.

She’s too lovely to resist, whether he’s imagining pinning her down and spreading those creamy thighs with his hands before running his tongue deep into her tender pink folds, or whether he’s imagining arranging her on all fours and then sliding deep into her warmth and wetness before reaching around her and stroking her clit to the melodious sounds of her soft cries. Heck, just when he thinks his brain has conjured her up in every single position, every single act of sexual depravity they’ve ever acted out, his mind comes up with a new one. Like imagining tying her to the bed, and then teasing her slowly. Watching the sweat beading like little diamonds on her body, watching that beautiful flush spreading slowly up her chest and then onto her neck and face. Watching her shudder and spasm – even that’s beautiful, in its own special way – as he brings her to orgasm.

Always the following morning, however, no matter how delicious the dreams are, Dean feels more and more tired. After a few days have passed, he’s almost starting to feel like a _ghost_ himself. His face looks worn and pale in the mirror, and Sam’s gone through a whole gallery of Worried Faces by now, although Dean’s rapidly getting too tired to care.

Soon, and despite his best efforts, Dean’s just going through the motions. When Sam insists that he take over driving duties, Dean doesn’t even raise a fuss. He’s too greyed-out, too out of it. He tries to stay on target while Sam talks to witnesses, digging for clues, but it’s a lost cause. Two minutes after speaking to anyone, Dean can’t remember a goddamned thing they said.

Dean soon realizes that Sam is pretty much running the show now, but again, he can’t really find it in his exhausted mind to care. At some point – later, he won’t remember when, exactly – he comes across Sam talking on his cell phone. Sammy’s speaking quietly, almost _furtively_ , to someone.

“As soon as you can, okay?” Sam mutters. He says a hurried goodbye and closes the phone the moment he realizes Dean’s in the room.

“Who was that?” Dean asks listlessly, but it’s more a reflex than actual interest.

“Nobody,” Sam says dismissively. “Wrong number.”

Dean’s feeling too tired and worn out to realize he never heard the phone ring, that something’s fishy here.

Not really important. A few minutes later, Dean barely remembers there was a phone call. He’s got a blinding headache, and he’s got more important concerns, like trying to find the mostly-empty bottle of Advil crammed into the bottom of their largest

duffle bag.

 

*~*~*

Another night passes, another night spent dreaming of Allison, wanton and demanding, and Dean wakes and finds himself unable to muster the strength to even get out of bed.

“Must’ve caught some nasty bug,” he mutters to Sam. Oh look, there’s another of Sam’s Worried Faces. Dean can’t figure out whether it’s Face Number Four or Face Number Ten. “I’ll be fine in a day or two. You wanna follow up on the last couple leads, while I recover?”

“Sure,” Sam says, and if Dean was more _with_ it, he’d hear the lie in Sammy’s voice.

*~*~*

 

Dean’s tangled in the sheets, uncomfortably hot, but too weak to strip off his own clothes. He hasn’t fallen asleep yet, and thus the nightly visitation from his dream-girlfriend hasn’t started yet, either. But he’s already anticipating it. The only part of his body that seems to have any energy left at all is his hard-on.

He must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knows, it feels as though cool, familiar hands are tugging the jeans from his body. He opens his eyes in the dream, and she’s there, naked and ready for him. “Allison,” he says faintly.

“Yes,” she smiles at him, then lifts his shirt gently over his head. Strange, she’s already red-faced, blushing and more hesitant than he’s imagined her being all these other nights, but it’s endearing at the same time. Guess his brain decided to ‘mix things up’ a bit. She kisses him, her mouth so soft and warm, and it’s so vivid, it’s like she’s right there with him. Just like all those other nights.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, just like he has all those other nights, too. She smirks a little and pulls his boxers down and off, his erection slapping back against his belly. He doesn’t know if he has the energy – even in this dream – to take over, but at least ‘Mini-Dean’ is ready for anything.

She presses her cool fingertips to his face, his lips. “Hush, Dean,” she whispers. Then she’s kissing him before slowly sliding down his body, kissing his throat and his collarbone as she goes, and Dean’s biting his lip and watching her.

Her lush hair is falling over her bare shoulders and around her face, the tips stroking along his skin like feathers, igniting his nerve endings. Her lips wrap around first one of his nipples, then the other, teeth gently tugging while he gasps and bites his own lip again.

She moves slowly lower, lips trailing softly over his belly, and then her hair is dragging slowly across his aching shaft, and he bucks his hips mindlessly. _Christ._ When she takes him into her mouth, teasing at the crown with her limber tongue, he gasps and reaches for her. Touching her face, stroking through the scattered strands of hair. Watching every move she makes.

Just when he’s sure he’s going to explode, she stops and produces a condom from somewhere. Funny, in all his dreams of her up til now, he’s never conjured that particular detail, even though they’ve always used condoms in their real-life encounters. It’s a nice touch. Makes this dream seem more _real_ than all the other ones, as wild and fun as they have been.

She rides him slowly, sliding up and down, gaze locked to his, grinding herself languidly against him. He knows he’s not going to last long. In fact, he’s just at the edge, ready to tip over. “Allison!” he groans.

Suddenly, over Allison’s shoulder, he sees… _another_ Allison?

Dean blinks, but the extra Allison is still there. This is kind of kinky, and yet-

A gunshot rings out, deafening him. He freezes, watching in shock as one of the Allisons starts bleeding from her chest. It’s the Allison behind the one on top of him, and the wounded Allison’s face goes blank as she falls backwards off the bed, thudding to the floor with a horrid meaty impact.

It must still be the dream. It _has_ to be. Or else he must need glasses, because he could swear that the blood he just saw was _wrong_. Almost….black?

“It’s okay, Dean,” the Allison still on top of him is saying, leaning over and caressing his cheek. And then Sam materializes from nowhere, clutching a gun, and Dean _wakes up_ all the way. This is _real_ , he realizes. It’s not a dream.

“What the fuck is going on, Sammy? A-allison?” he sputters. He’s confused, disoriented. On the other hand, he feels somehow better. As if his strength is starting to come back.

“See for yourself, Dean,” Sam says, motioning towards the foot of the bed.

Allison rolls off of Dean obligingly – not that it matters, sexual completion is furthest from his mind right now – and Dean crawls to the edge of the bed, snatching a pillow to cover himself as he does so.

 _Gross._ The thing on the floor still vaguely resembles a human body, but it’s mainly just rottenness now, breaking down and soaking a new stain into the dingy motel carpet. Dean tries, but he still doesn’t get it, even though his head feels like it’s slowly clearing, after what feels like weeks of fogginess. “Dude, I’ll ask you again – what the _fuck_?”

“A succubus, Dean,” Sam replies briskly. He’s all business, but a blush is creeping up his cheeks, and Dean glances back to see a red-faced Allison covering her nakedness with the thin bedsheet. Oh. How much of it, of _them_ , did Sammy see?

“She’s been feeding off you for days. Maybe nearly a week. It’s why you’ve felt so drained, Dean. Why you’ve been having those….dreams. I needed Allison – the _real_ Allison – to come here to break the thing’s hold on you. And then I shot it in the heart with consecrated iron.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He looks from Sam, all earnest and concerned and embarrassed, to Allison, all earnest and concerned and embarrassed. What the Hell is he supposed to do _now_?

Being Dean Winchester, his first reaction is to try to make light of it: “Try not to look so jealous, Sammy. Of course the succubus chose _me_. I’m the cuter one.”

Sam rolls his eyes and clicks the gun’s safety back on. “ _Right_ , Dean. Thanks for ‘taking one for the team’.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean says airily, and then he looks pointedly at Allison, before looking down at himself. At the pillow, but they all know what’s under there. Dean’s .38 _Special_ , if you will.

“Right,” Sam says, blushing like a girl himself, as he catches on. “I’ll just….be outside.” Sam quickly drops the gun on his bed, and then high-tails it out of there and shuts the door behind him.

Alone at last, Dean looks over at his girl. “I’m sorry, Allison,” he says hesitantly. “I guess it must seem like I was cheating on you…with _you_. But yeah, still cheating.”

She shakes her head. “Sam explained to me how these things work. That they come to you in dreams. There’s no need to apologize.” She smiles shyly and drops her gaze. “I’ll admit it wasn’t easy, trying to, um, _distract_ you, especially with Sam _watching_ , but…” She reaches for him, touching his cheek again. “I’m just glad you’re okay. That Sam caught on in time.”

“I’m fine, except for a bad case of the blue balls,” he growls, eying her. “And now that we have some goddamned _privacy_ …” As long as she’s here, and Sammy’s left them alone for a bit, why not?

Allison laughs and lets the sheet drop.

 


End file.
